


Cult of Worship

by tristesses



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: F/M, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mavros spends much of his summer at Montrève watching Phèdre nó Delaunay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cult of Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Teenagers: awkward even in Terre d'Ange. Even when they're Mavros. I actually considered that for a summary for a moment.
> 
> Written for the Kink Bingo square "spanking/paddling".

Though Imriel seems to take offense at it, Mavros is not remotely guilty about desiring Phèdre nó Delauney. She is, after all, an _anguissette_ , created to be the balance of scions of Kushiel, a reflecting pool for their darkest desires. And oh, Mavros has very dark desires indeed, urgent ones, and in these he indulges in the dead of night: dreams of blood, dreams of fire dancing on pale skin, dreams of shoving himself into her wet mouth, his chains 'round her wrists and his sigil carved into her skin. Her voice, pleading with him, and whether she is asking him to stop or begging him not to changes with the night and the fantasy.

In daylight, Mavros does his best to rein himself in. He is far too good a courtier to let his thoughts show on his face, but sometimes Phèdre looks at him with those crimson-marked eyes and he is certain she knows what images are running through his mind. If he was her patron, she would understand innately just what he wants from her, and give it willingly. Even if he wasn't, submission pulses through her veins as surely as blood does, and a single command from him - the possibilities are endless, aching, and overwhelming. If he thinks about them too long, he becomes tempted to do somewhat rash. Roshana and Baptiste confess to feeling the same way, and they all agree to be even more circumspect than usual, reckoning that a little restraint would serve them better than permitting their desires to run freely. Though idle speculation, of course, is never out of the question.

Neither is allowing his eyes to wander, so long as no one is there to notice. Mavros spends much of his time watching Phèdre, drinking her in like the sweetest of wines. She is exquisite, breasts like peaches, hair like curls of ink against the smooth white canvas of her neck and shoulders, and each incidental move she makes floats like sheer silk on the wind. Mavros knows; he's seen every one.

Of late he has been consumed by thoughts of his hands spanning her narrow waist, cupping the curves of her buttocks, slapping the flesh of her thighs. Her pale skin would redden quickly, he thinks, and it would be so tender. He pictures her sprawled across his lap, struggling and writhing against him as he pins her down and spanks her, again and again and again. He'd make her count the blows, a cliché game but one that stirs his blood nonetheless, and each time his hand came down - _slap!_ \- she would cry out "Ten my lord!" - _slap!_ \- "thank you my lord!" Ten or fifteen or fifty, however many he wanted; she would be entirely subject to his whims, and he would spank her until he tired of it or until he threw her to the floor to take his pleasure. Or he could clap her in the stocks and force her legs apart with a spreader bar so she could never find the sweet friction she seeks, and take a paddle to her buttocks and thighs. She would wear a choke collar and he would hold the lead, so whenever she spoke out of turn or sought release without permission he could cut off her air until she complied. The marks around her throat and around her wrists she would bear with pride, the strain of her muscles a reminder of what a Shahrizai can do. He would leave bruises, everywhere, stark against her fair skin. His bruises.

"Lord Mavros," Phèdre says, and Mavros blinks hard and focuses on her face. She fixes him with her all-knowing gaze, expression caught somewhere between amusement and compassion, and he flushes at being caught out. Anyone else, and he would make a lewd comment and a jest - but not her. Instead he stands still, uncomfortably pinned to the spot, and curses himself for indulging his infantile fantasies where she could find him.

Phèdre says somewhat else, he doesn't quite hear, and points. He gives her a smile replete with a slightly skewed version of his signature charm, and goes in that direction. Her obedient servant, that's who he is.

All the while, he is thinking about her on the end of Melisande Shahrizai's leash. Thinking about what perfect tortures Melisande could extract from Phèdre's willing flesh with her bare hands. He would be deluding himself to think that he would best her in the games of the pleasure-chamber; not Melisande, the only woman known to have forced Kushiel's Chosen to give her _signale._

Still, Mavros can't help himself. He stares at Phèdre, at the curves of her hips under the flow of her skirt, and wonders. He wonders, and wonders, and wonders.


End file.
